


Betrayal

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [12]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Homophobia, Regina (1990-1991)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1991: After Guy leaves, Turnbull makes a decision that changes the course of his life and career.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Betrayal

Jim Reyes was a handsome young man; strongly built, with nearly black hair and dark eyes. A talented recruit, as well -- he was a swift learner, excellent at drill and he got along well with everyone in the troop. For all of his apparent strength, he was a warm-hearted, affable man who clearly went into police work for all of the right reasons. Gracious. Humorous. Competent.

He was also gay, and none of his fine qualities were apparently enough to overcome that appalling betrayal to the bastion of heterosexual masculinity that was the RCMP.

Renfield Turnbull was boggled at how swiftly the change came about.

He was _horrified_ by just what that change entailed.

It wasn't as though he was unaware that homosexuality was frowned upon; they were within spitting distance of a time when there were still screening interviews given out to determine a recruit's sexual orientation in order to weed out anyone who wasn't straight. Turnbull most certainly didn't go volunteering his own orientation for that reason alone; while he very rarely felt all that much attraction to _anyone_ , he didn't expect that would matter very much. People would treat him differently, and he didn't want that.

But to see a man essentially be _tortured_ for it...

Reyes hadn't come out willingly; another recruit had overheard a phone conversation between him and his boyfriend. The backlash was swift and brutal. Unrelenting. Sickening. The man found no peace; not during the day, and not even in his sleep.

Hawthorne's body made a satisfying sound as it hit the floor of their barracks and he slid several feet on his backside before coming to a rest, looking decidedly shocked. Reyes was backed up to his bunk gasping, eyes wide. And Turnbull was two parts righteous anger and one part terror, standing firmly between the two and looking every bit as imposing as his height would allow.

"You will not put your hands on him again," he said, and it was quiet in the otherwise now utterly silent room, as twenty-eight men stood and watched.

"When the hell did it become your business, Turnbull?" Hawthorne asked, getting to his feet. In an actual physical confrontation, Turnbull knew full well that he could take the man down -- he was more wiry, shorter, thin in some ways. Not to be underestimated, but easily assessed. It wasn't arrogance, merely fact.

"You will _not_ put your hands on him again." There was no compromise, apology or reservation in the statement. The part of Turnbull that had the sense to be terrified was genuinely so, but no part of him would allow for such a miserable thing to take place. He could do little about the psychological torment, but he could, at least, get in the way of a more physical hazing.

He could feel the looks he was getting. Wariness. Fear. Anger. Disgust. Shock.

"Let me guess," Hawthorne said, jutting his chin out. "You're a pillow-biter, too, aren't you? Standing up for your boyfriend?"

It was a moment that could have gone either way.

Be one of them, fumble for some sort of explanation. Laugh off the accusation. It wouldn't be enough, now, to undo him stepping up in the first place, but it might buy him some measure of grace. Enough to get through the heavily team-work oriented training, anyway.

It was a moment that could have gone either way had he been someone else. But he wasn't.

Turnbull stepped closer, shoving down the sick anxiety in his gut. He could summon no satisfaction at Hawthorne taking a small step back. But he dropped his voice to just one note above a whisper, locking gazes with the man: "If you put your hands on him again, I will break every bone in them."

It wasn't an empty threat. He meant every word.

Hawthorne saw that, too. He made a face, then shook his head and walked back to his own bunk with his head held high. There wasn't any readable fear on the man, just a twisted, ugly certainty; what an executioner must look like, holding his quill above a death warrant.

Turnbull made himself look at the others, tipping his chin up and making it a warning to the rest. They stared back anger. Fear. Disgust. A few looks of vague admiration, but they were quickly hidden and not enough to quell the ice in his veins. Finally, he looked at Reyes, whose face was tight, whose eyes were grateful and miserable, all at the same time, and then he had to go, had to get out of the barracks, get outside where he could breathe again. Measured steps to the door, his loping gait every bit of certainty he didn't feel.

It cut into his time to study, but Turnbull didn't come back until he finally stopped shaking, two hours and some later.


End file.
